


The Thinning Line

by midnightblack07



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Prompt Fic, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightblack07/pseuds/midnightblack07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“In those bleary hours between sleeping and waking, he allows himself to imagine what it would be like to rule Winterfell alongside her...”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thinning Line

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for:** fauxkaren's Game of Thrones Kink Meme prompt in which "the two of them are in an established relationship, but they have to keep it secret (possibly because they are at the Wall and Jon is still Lord Commander) leading to things like keeping quiet during sex and grabbing quickies when they can etc etc..."
> 
>  **Warnings:** Mild spoilers through ADWD

+

 

 _The Wall is no place for a woman_ , he thinks, and not for the first time as he watches her cross the training yard--watches the other men's (his brothers, his men) gazes follow her, take in every inch of her as his blood burns in a way that is still foreign to him.

He thinks by now there should be enough ice in his veins to quell it (needs only to sneak another glance at the rich auburn of her hair to remember that ice can only do so much against fire).

Mayhaps he should be thankful he decided against sparring today, for surely any partner he may have had could have easily hacked his head from his body at this point.

 

\+ 

 

She catches his hand as he is making his way back to his chambers after, deftly pulls him into her own room and quietly bars the door behind them. 

His hand is still enclosed in hers, an easy captive despite its larger size. _How fitting_ , he thinks. 

It doesn't take much (hasn't since that very first time, and perhaps even then), she needs only to look up at him with eyes so blue they still startle him, so beguiling they put an end to any and all potential protests, and her face is cradled in his hands, his lips desperate over her own. 

He kisses her like she is an oasis in the Dornish desert, like he may never have the chance to again (knows that soon enough he won't), and when they part her woolen gown is pulled down to her waste and he is divested of his cloak and tunic.

His breath still catches at the sight of her, the pink peaks of her breasts and the smoothness of her skin a gift for the sorest eyes.

He has no words for her as he pulls her close, can scarcely muster a sound as he takes a hardened nipple into his mouth and suckles just the way he's learnt she likes.

"Jon," she gasps, and the hand he has at her hips tightens to the point where he's certain she'll have bruises tomorrow.

He watched her once, trailing her fingers over the marks his lips left on her neck and the soft skin atop her breasts, utterly transfixed, and he'd thought to apologize (cheeks burned in shame) until he caught sight of the small smile gracing her lips. _She liked it_.

His hands reach down to pull up her skirts, slowly bunching them at her hips with her help, and when one finds its way between her thighs, he knows to capture her mouth with his own lest they be overheard. It does as little as it ever has to stifle the sounds (he's rubbing that curious nub that never fails to bring her over the edge), and there's even less he can do to quiet the groan that escapes him at the feel of her already hot and slick against his fingers.

She whimpers when he withdraws his hand, skirts spilling to her feet once again as he kneels to tug them off of her entirely so that she stands in nothing but her smallcloths. He kisses the soft flesh of her belly then, rests her forehead against it as he pulls at the strings until they too lay at her feet. 

He's overcome with the desire to taste her, to lick and suck at her until she dissolves into a heap of breathless pants and moans, until there's nothing but her pure unadulterated pleasure (what little he can give).

" _Oh_ ," She gasps, even now the gesture still a surprise to her, and it only ever serves to spur his desire. _Sweet Sansa_.

He knows she's trying to keep quiet, her pants and her sweet moans cut short, but when her knees begin to buckle, he thinks it best to make their way to her bed.

He would finish what he started then, but she's tugging at his hair until he's facing her, cheeks beautifully flushed and chest heaving. 

"Please Jon, now," she whispers, and he does not need her to elaborate because he wants what she yearns for just as much as she does (wants it more than anything), and when he finally guides himself inside her (wet and warm and so inviting it almost undoes him) all coherent thought is lost to him.

She makes a small sound against the shell of his ear, a cross between a broken gasp and a moan, and he feels his cock twitch inside her. He wants to take it slow, to ensure that she feels every stroke--that this is as good for her as it is for him because _gods_ is it good--but he can never boast that kind of control with her, can never shake the feeling that he is no more than a fumbling, rough handed green boy. 

With Ygritte his lack of experience had shielded him, but with Sansa there is nothing but _her_ to account for it--the way her hips sway gently when she moves, the way she whispers sweet words against his ear, the way she watches him through lowered lashes when they're among company, the sounds she makes as he moves against her, _inside_ her--sweet chirping, stifled sounds.

" _Gods_ Jon," she pants when he shifts the angle of her hips, spreads her thighs wider so he can go deeper.

Her soft cries grow louder, and even in the midst of his haze he knows they're in danger of being overheard. He swallows the sounds with his mouth again, can barely keep from adding to them with the thought that she can taste herself on his tongue.

It isn't long before she's stiffening beneath him, breath hitching with the wave of her climax--isn't long before he's following her, spending himself inside her with a low groan. He buries his face in the crook of her neck after, wants to collect himself before he faces her, but she's showering him with kisses--his ear, his hair, his rough cheeks--as she's like to do, and it's almost more than he can bear.

"Don't," she whispers when she attempts to relieve her of his weight, her fingers digging into the skin of his back and her legs holding him in place. "Not yet."

 _Not yet_.

 

+

 

Despite the crippling cold (or mayhaps because of it), Sansa has made a habit of requesting that he accompany her at the very height of the Wall—a request he was only ever to happy to oblige.

 

He’s grown to love the time they spend in their secluded corners there--with their gloved hands clasped staring over the edge of their world, it was easy to forget they had anything to hide.

The red of her hair is a nearly obscene flash of colour against the sea of white that surrounds them. He toys with a few of the strands between his gloved fingers, marvels at the way the sun’s light reflects off of them (ignores the tugging behind his ribs, the rush of memories he can never quite shake).

She kisses him then, the warmth of her lips and her tongue as it slides against his own a welcome contrast to the cold that is his constant companion.

Not for the first time, he’s overcome with the feral urge to take her here, atop the rest of the world, at the edge of it—burns in shame as his cock hardens to the point of pain at the very thought. 

He tempers it though, makes due with the sweet kisses she so freely gives, holds her as close as he can. 

_This is reckless enough_ , he thinks, far more than he’s like to consider.

And when his lips move down to her throat and he’s rewarded with a small whimper, there is little besides her and _this_ he could muster the sense to consider. 

 

+

 

"They say the king offered you Winterfell, and a beautiful wildling princess along with it," she watches him closely, fingers drawing delicate patterns across the bare skin of his chest. 

“He did,” he confirms after a brief pause.

“Why didn’t you take it?” Her brows furrow slightly and her fingers have stopped their movements across his skin, and he can’t help but wonder (however briefly) if this is a test of sorts, for surely she _must_ know.

“Because Winterfell belongs to you,” he tells her nonetheless, cups her face in his hands while his thumb brushes against the high arch of her cheek, follows her light blush.

She kisses him then, deep and desperate, and she needs not prompt him to return in kind. 

When he takes her this time, his movements are slow, each thrust deliberate—a chance to memorize the feel of her wrapped around him, the hitch of her break, the taste of her tongue. 

“It could belong to the both is us,” she whispers after, her head pillowed atop his chest and her hand flat against his belly (almost low enough the stir him).

“Sansa—“

“I know Jon, I know,” she kisses the skin above his heart before resting against him again, effectively puts an end to the unsettling topic.

But, in those bleary hours between sleeping and waking, he allows himself to imagine what it would be like to rule Winterfell alongside her—to wake every morning with her at his side, to openly share his bed with her, to watch her grow big with their children.

He knows even then that tomorrow this black cloak will weight heavily on his shoulders, that the memory of his vows will catch in his throat. 

He knows even now that these are a boy’s dreams, foolish and futile. But he knows just as well that they are a man’s desires and, after all, he has only ever been a man. 

 

+


End file.
